The Changing Seasons
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Hermione decides to write a book after reading about the remarkable, lupine case of Arthur Kirkland. Her decisions is confirmed when she receives word that the man is still alive, and ready to tell his story to a willing listener. Once there, she has a chance to turn back, especially if she doesn't want to hear the haunts of a tormented past.
1. The Blossoming Stars

_I do not own Hetalia or Harry Potter_

* * *

><p>The Blossoming Stars<p>

Her name didn't matter. Her face did not matter either. What mattered, what people saw, was her abdomen. It was large, swollen smooth with new, forming life. An infant was being created, floating the dim red light, kicking occasionally. Each cell was put together, one by one, quickly, and adding to each soft layer of skin, to a nail here, to a follicle of hair, to an eye.

And, across the abdomen, was a long, gnarled, red scar. The angry gash was a telltale sign of what had happened to the woman, the night she was pulled into the woods. Hush, now, the wind might carry your voice. Two things became a part of her body that night. An infant and an everlasting wound, which dripped its potency into the child, changing his life.

The woman didn't want anyone to see it. She wore scarves or dresses to cover it up. When the doctor came to visit, out of her free will, she explained that the scar had been inflicted by a fell she took as a child. The doctor didn't believe her. Something else had happened. Something she refused to talk about. Something that she hid under a veil and turned her face away whenever it was brought up.

She didn't talk about it, what was inside of that stomach. Maybe because behind the dark scar, there was me.

* * *

><p>The old man stopped suddenly. His cloudy eyes swung upwards at the woman sitting before him. The woman, going by the name Hermione, barely had time to enchant her quill into running over the paper when he began speaking. Now the quill waited impatiently, hovering over the parchment. In her hand she had a mechanical pencil and a small notepad. She had made three points going vertically about how she would organize the pending book.<p>

Hermione gave the man a strained smile. "Mr. Kirkland? Would you like some tea?" She asked.

Arthur Kirkland shook his ancient head, heaving a sigh. "I needed a break, young lady. I beg your pardon." His green eyes glittered in amusement. "You are quite able."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush. "No, not at all."

"Ah, I start speaking before I even introduce myself." He shifted on his desk chair, leaning forwards. A patch had been cleared of books, papers, quills, ink pots, and globes to create space for Hermione. Hermione tried to take as little of it up as possible. She wasn't one to intrude, no matter how starved she was for what he was about to tell her.

The rest of the room was a larger version of the cluttered desk. The bookshelves were piled high, some shelves spilling novels of varying shapes and age. Maps hung on the walls, tucked beneath posters and notes and three different clocks. Hermione sat comfortably in a leather chair, her professional robes spilling to the ground. Luckily she had worn long black boots with thick soles, so no unexpected sharp objects would impale her. Arthur wore muggle clothing, much to her surprise. A green tweed suit.

He shifted forwards and sighed deeply, glancing out the window.

"I meant to test you. Once you get to my age and status you can very well do what you please to others." He said. "I apologize for doing such."

Hermione shook her head politely. "Not at all. I do enjoy tests."

"Yes, a good friend told me about that." Arthur said with a tight grin.

Her eyes widened despite the thought bubbling in her head saying _he's still testing you, you dimwitted girl. Listen! _

"Then again he knew you when you still attended school. Dear, you had a rough life Miss Granger." Arthur flashed her a smile. She relaxed. His friend may have been Dumbledore. Both seemed like venerable old wizards. Being in contact would hardly come as a surprise.

"And I never got to tell you why I came here." Hermione said.

Arthur made her stop speaking without even looking her way. He bent down and opened a drawer. He rifled for a moment, dipping his hands into the folders. He pulled out an opened, yellowed letter. On the front was Hermione's address.

"Yes, but I was vague in there." Hermione protested.

"You said enough, dear." Arthur sat, cutting her off gently again. He set the letter aside. "I have received so many requests to come visit me." He picked up the manilla folder and showed her a bundle of letters. "This is only a small portion."

Setting them back, he straightened and steadily watched her movements. She was charming the wand again. Her lips barely moved with the incantation and her wrist flicked lightly. An artist carefully applying paint to make the image no less than perfect.

"Blasted Erina Wittlie. She wrote one story about me into her damned book and I become a celebrity with all sorts of curious bookworms. It would not have been so bad, and this is on my part. If I had denied her permission to say I was living and to give my location then I never would have to sit here and sift through a thousand whiny voices, trying to decide how to best break their heart."

The quill paused. Hermione waited too. Her heart seemed to beat too slowly and too quickly at the same time.

Arthur frowned. "You are the only one I have responded to. You are the only apt pupil, the only one who would get anywhere. The only one who was serious about the proposal and not hoping for a manic stroke of luck and a book published under their name, using someone else's story. And, as I have said before, a friend has told me about how brilliant you are."

Hermione thanked him.

Arthur picked up a wand and, twisting it in the air, caused a teapot to trundle over, pouring Hermione a cup of steaming, deep red liquid, before gliding back to its station at the corner of the room, on a wooden trolley.

Hermione took a sip of the best tea in the world. Once she finished, Arthur began telling his story again. Still without asking what her motives were.

* * *

><p>Mother did not bleed out once I arrived into the world. Some said that would have been too kind. She had to raise me and, later from an unknown man, a little girl. She didn't care much for the girl and often ignored her, but I will get to that part a little later on.<p>

Rather than describe to you my life's story and my daily routine—which was poor and troublesome, even for a young witch who could afford to feed and house us—I will tell you, in detail, about three days. I remember these days strongly. They have been burned into my mind and I doubt they could ever escape. Once death comes to take me home they may as well stay right here, in this library, haunting anyone who comes by. And perhaps by telling you this I am cursing you.

But you've come prepared for that. Haven't you?

The day I remember from this portion of my life, before the little sister, was in my sixth spring. That month mother had decided that she wanted me to go to a little country home to visit her mother. A mother who had directed her to a doctor in the first place. The mother didn't understand what it could be and she thought it was a rare sort of infection. She did not know that her daughter was a witch, living under her father's protection and being nurtured in the magical arts. Her mother had assumed she had ran off or done something inadvertently asinine.

Mother loved me, but she also feared me. This day, the day I will begin with, she was trying to get me home. Or at least to a little cold shack off to the side of the forest. There I could suffer in peace and not worry her mother. For as many light squeezes mother gave to my hand or how many kisses to my hairline or how many times she had apologized for my agony, she would not go near me when the full moon rose.

In the city she enchanted a closet to be bigger and to conceal noise. She put me in there, kissing my cheek, threw a blanket in, and left. She shut the door. She wouldn't wait by it. These nights she went to a lover or to some place far away.

Now she had a reason to keep me distanced. I knew that I could be dangerous. I had scars even then. But I didn't know that she had left me. I learned that later. But, as a toddling six year old, she was a mystery. I knew my time was coming close. When there was not enough time to catch a train back, due to her mother's incessant excuses and desires to see her darling grandchild, we were delayed.

I recall that morning playing in the fields. Grandmother had a white sheep dog, one she called Limestone. I played with him, running after him and letting him gently push me down and lick my hands and cheeks. He was an excellent dog. I recall being excessively fond of him. I played with him that morning, knowing my fate was the day after. He acted strangely, barking at shadows, or giving me an odd look: like he understood me. I would pat his head and tell him what a good dog he was.

"Arthur, boy, get in here! Look at the sky!" Grandmother called sharply. Her hair was a wispy red.

I looked up as directed. The sky was clouded over, dark rain was bound to come. I ran in with Limestone. Grandmother patted my back and directed me to a bowl of pudding dusted with sugar. I went to it and ate my small treat, Limestone at my feet.

"Where's mummy?" I asked.

Limestone wanted a bite but I told him it wasn't good for dogs.

Grandmother tied an apron around her thick waist. "Aye, beats me if I know. She went walking into the forest. Haven't seen her since. Might be lost, that foul girl." I winced, but grandmother laughed good-naturedly and I allowed a smile to pass over my lips. Grandmother was like that. She insulted those she loved and laughed as she did. It was the way she showed she cared, I suppose.

"When do you think she'll come back?" I spooned a chunk into my mouth, catching a tasty lump of sugar.

"Hopefully 'fore the rain starts. Now, you play inside. Limestone can go out into his doghouse, don't want his fur all over my newly cleaned home. I have books in one of the rooms. Go and take a look. I also have some toys you can play with. Some of them were your mother's. Though I doubt girl trinkets would be of much interest."

I didn't really mind. Limestone whimpered when I let him out. It broke my little boy heart doing that, but I had to. I had many difficult decisions later on. Once Limestone had dragged his shaggy big paws to the dog house, which was speckled with the danger of rain, I went to the bookshelves.

For a while I read, then I played with one of mother's old dolls, taking her on adventures through the house I pretended was a labyrinth, and then I read again. For several hours I did this, waiting for the rain to end and for mother to return.

She returned when I had taken the doll to the living room. I poised her on a couch, mumbling under my breath about an approaching monster in the distance. My magic was weak, then, and it would remain so. Even the spell of retrieving the teapot has drained me. I won't be able to do much for another few hours. But that, too, is a story I will save for later.

Mother entered the house, her coat drenched. She smiled at me. During dinner she didn't explain where she went. She didn't have to. She went to the forest and found an abandoned shed once used by a house that had burned several years back. She charmed it, set it up, and had returned. She must have put some potent magic around it, for her cheeks were pale and her hands trembled.

I worried about her. I also worried about Limestone.

That night I slept poorly. I always did before a full moon. I woke from nightmares, sick, and then fell back asleep to new terrors. Mother knew what happened. She distanced herself then, too. When I most needed her. I don't hate her for it. She was a frightened, wounded person. Her brother had been the same way.

I saw a picture of him in that month. It was on the bookshelf, black and white and clean. It showed a younger grandmother, her hair fuller. Next to her was a broad man with a stern, but clever face. Between them were two children: mother and her brother. Her brother did not have any magic. And if he was, it would have been too weak to trace.

From the stories I heard, he was weak of character. He often fidgeted and when he found work he lost it right away because of some minor difficult. Grandmother said, later, that it was due to something that happened to him as a child. A noise frightened him and afterwards he became a nervous infant. He hit his head with his small fists or tore out his hair. I doubt a thunderclap or dog bark had caused such hysteria. Whatever the reason, grandmother never said. Perhaps out of shame.

The boy didn't live long after my mother left with her father to live in the city. Her father had once been a powerful wizard but had settled out of love for a muggle woman. No shame in that. But now his daughter had magic, his son most likely a squib, so he escaped. Grandmother said he had found a better job and once settled he would bring her over. He never called. Or perhaps Grandmother said, she was confused, she had grown too attached to the country and refused to leave. Regardless of the circumstances, the family split. The boy grew sicker without his older sister for support, not that she was much but she was something. He walked through the forest and was never found again.

Anyway, once the fitful night passed, the day went even slower. I ate, played with Limestone in the soggy grass, and then it was time. Before the sun had a chance to set, mother said she had found a nice camping spot in the forest and quickly whisked me away. I said goodbye to Limestone tearfully. The dog howled at my absence.

We walked for a long time. My legs began to ache. Or maybe the pain came from the change already beginning. I don't know. And—I see your inquisitive look, dear—mother did not change. It leads me to believe that she had been cursed. She would watch her child suffer. She could not escape that through her own suffering.

She took me to the cabin and opened the door. Inside it smelled of dust and wet leaves. There was a blanket draped across the ground. Nothing sharp, nothing that could cause a splinter. Mother was nervous. She kissed my forehead, the way she always did.

"Remember what I said?" She asked.

I nodded. "Don't escape, keep calm, try to sleep."

"And?"

"And you love me."

"Good boy." She said weakly. I noticed a hole in the side of the cabin. I wanted to point it out, but then I remember who mother pointed her wand and said a few words. I understood magic, regardless of how young I was.

"Bye mummy." I said.

She nodded and shut the door. It clicked shut. I took the blanket and curled up into a corner, waiting for the last golden rays of day to depart.

I began to drift to sleep by the time the moonbeams pierced the wall.

When they did I reluctantly snapped awake. The painful process began. My bones twisted and grew, snapping this way and that. I gave a lupine howl, fur creeping across my skin. As a child the process went slowly and deeply. My body racked with pain. And yet I didn't weep. This was life. This was what I knew. Each month I experienced the pain of change and the inability to control my own mind.

My mind went blank, white, like a sheet had been thrown over my head. Yet I could still see. I knew what was happening. I had no control over it. My body through my senses out for instinct. I followed my muscles, not my brain. I felt like I was locked in a chamber. Numbly I felt the claws move or the tail swish or the clothing rip.

The shed was charmed not to snap against my size. I huddled in it, restricted. At least I couldn't scratch myself or hit my body. That happened often. In those mornings mother found me bleeding, dotted with bruises. Maybe I reminded her of her brother.

I thought this would be another night, inwardly. I noticed the patch of emptiness again. My body reacted against its cage. I dug a claw into it. Here mother's magic had faltered out of her nerves. She should have been more careful. I pulled upwards, ripping the wood free from its frame. I tried to struggle out, pushing against the electric boundary. My body buzzed with pain but I fought, tapping into magic far more powerful than hers. I broke through, looking around the quiet forest.

The blue-black trees rustled, their silhouettes dancing against the dark sky. It was wet and smelled of pine. My eyes swiveled in my head, searching for something to destroy, to bite, to eat.

I heard a bark. I snapped to the side, my body of tightly-wound muscle twitching. I saw a white figure in the distance, galloping towards me. I raced straight towards it. The bark ensued and I slowed, looking at the creature. Recognition flickered through my veins.

It was Limestone. Limestone looked up at me, barking and wagging his tail in happiness. He had found me. The loyal dog had followed me! My heart started to beat wildly. The sleeping, idle part of my brain tried to wake up and fight against the poignant magic draped over me

"Lime… Stone…" My canine mouth grunted, sounded disjointed, monstrous.

Limestone barked, as if saying _good job!_

I forced my arm down to pet him, my claws stained with my own blood trembling. I touched his head. Oh what grand relief flooded my blood, elating me. I had control over this beast, at six years old.

Then, against my will, my muscles snapped. My arm went up, then swung down. With a dull thud I smacked Limestone across the head. He rolled over and away, skidding across the grass. My claws had cut through his fur. I pounced on him. I knew he was already dead. I pummeled him, feeling hot tears trickle down my muzzle. And…

* * *

><p>"Oh, don't cry." Arthur said gently, sitting up.<p>

Hermione looked at him, her eyes tinged red and wet. She dabbed away the budding tears with a corner of her handkerchief. She smiled apologetically.

"I'm terribly sorry. I shouldn't cry, but I felt so bad for Limestone. All he wanted was to see his loving owner, and he received death instead." Her voice cracked and she fell quiet.

Arthur pitied her with a sympathetic look. His own eyes were swimming in sorrow. He hid it well, however. He licked his lips and plucked a sugary sweet from the bowl that appeared on his desk. He popped it in his mouth, waiting for Hermione to quiet down and to resume writing. As he spoke she had been periodically jotting down notes or staring at him in awe. Something in his story moved her. The quill at her side, taking his story down ad verbatim, drifted languidly in the silence.

"Are you prepared for me to go on?" Arthur asked.

Hermione tried to imagine Arthur as a young boy. Now, he was old but not so that you thought of him as a wise old man. More like a wise older man. He had a shock of wheat-blond hair peppered with streaks of white. His eyebrows were heavy and comical, giving each expression so much more weight. His hands were thick and large, now laced over his desk.

She had trouble shrinking the man back to youth.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, I think so."

* * *

><p>Have more tea, it will calm you down.<p>

I don't recall the rest of the night. I did not stray far from the shed. It called me back to it. Partially due to the spell that, even in her nervousness, she had extended a small perimeter around the shed. And partially due to my best friend now bleeding into the grass. I went back in and tried to sleep.

Mother returned the next day as promise. She bundled me up in fresh new clothes and a blanket over my shoulder. She took me away, apologizing under her breath.

One she had said "sorry" for what would be the twentieth time, she turned to me. We had started to walk away and she noticed the dog in the grass. Tears slid down her cheeks. She shook her head.

"Infernal creature." She said. "Tried to chase you out of love. I told mother to chain him up. She said a dog does what a dog does. How could I have been so foolish."

I looked at the dog, too. My heart splintered and shattered once more. I wailed at the sight. I wanted to run to him, my six year old mind shaking in grief. She held me back.

"He's gone now. Do you see who dangerous you are? You need to be careful." She scolded me.

I nodded numbly, still aquiver with tears.

We walked one. She told me the lie she told grandmother, how we had stayed in a lovely cabin. We saw a rat. We slept by the fireplace and she told me all sorts of lovely stories from her youth. As she described the scene, etching it into each wall. She created a place infinitely more likable than the one I was in the night before. I loved it, I wanted to believe it, so I tried to.

Not that I would ever likely forget the truth.

When we returned, Grandmother was looking for Limestone. My heart broke all over again. I covered my face with me hands and sobbed. Mother had prepared another lie in her never-ending web. She had wanted to say the dog had rushed off and would soon come back. Grandmother caught my tears and interrogated us with what happened.

Finally I mustered out a lie, one like my mother's. I had learned well.

"Wolf had eaten him… We found him when we came back from the house." I mumbled.

"Oh." Was all Grandmother said. She gave me a tense hug and walked back inside. That's all she ever said on the matter. Imagine my heartache, but happening worse inside an old woman.

The day after that painful course of the sun, mother and I returned home. We took a train and came home.

* * *

><p>Arthur finished this portion of the story with a sidelong glance at Hermione.<p>

"I didn't give you much detail about the third day, I'm afraid. But at times it's far too painful to recall."

"Don't worry. I think I have enough details for now." She insisted. "I think we should rest."

Arthur agreed. He stood heavily and picked his way through the books lithely. He knew the room inside out. His feet were bare, too, Hermione noticed in amusement. He went to the door and cracked it open. He poked his head out and called for a young girl. The girl padded up to him, holding a wet towel.

"See our lady guest? Let's not starve. How about to get us some lunch."

Hermione began to protest, but pinched her lips. If Arthur had began to kindly ask his servants to bring lunch, then he meant for Hermione to stay awhile. She didn't have a problem with that. Not at all.

Arthur went back, clearing a few books with his toes.

"I didn't know servants still existed. I thought House Elves were being used." Hermione said, sitting up.

Arthur sat down, looking at her. "I would hardly call these servants. After my mention in the book and past successes, I have more money than I can handle. So I seek out men and women who can only do household tasks and I ask them to tend to an old man such as myself. I treat them kindly. They get paid and they are fed and dressed. They can also support their families."

"What a nobleman." Hermione smiled.

Arthur shrugged listlessly. "I suppose you could call me that. But I only do what I can to fill the time."

A pause passed between them. It was slow and pensive, the best kind of pause. Hermione glanced down her notes, thinking about what was useful and what was not. She made several scribbles in the margins.

"How do you suggest I split the story up?" She asked professionally.

"I am going to tell you it in four parts. I just told you the first. Four parts for four seasons." Arthur said.

She cast him a curious glance.

To this he raised his eyebrows. "You are a bright one. I have been waiting a long time to tell this story. And finally I have found the perfect listener."

Hermione felt she would burst from so many compliments. It was one thing in her schooling days to have a teacher give her house points or congratulate her on having the highest grade. And now to have a wizard—a famous one at that—give her words of the same nature, she could barely hide her elation.

Arthur cleared his throat.

"How is he?"

"Harry?" Hermione asked. Arthur nodded. She didn't look up from her notes. "Training for his job in the Ministry. Same as always, a bit more cold-hearted and sometimes he becomes distant." She knew a "fine" would not suffice.

Arthur digested the information. "Poor boy. And what about you? Do you feel the trauma?"

"Of course." Hermione said, setting the notebook aside. "I've had nightmares to complete collapses in public. I've frozen while buying groceries from a muggle market, simply seized up and started to cry. Luckily a kind woman pulled me aside and comforted me. I said I had been in war and she patted my back. I wonder if she thought I was mad."

"So what if someone thinks you're mad. You still are a hero."

"Yes, I suppose…"

"And Ronald?"

She gave him the same curious glance as earlier.

"Do you think I wouldn't know about your Golden Trio? You made headlines."

"I thought you had dissolved into the mortal world."

"I did. But, I had connections."

_Had._

"I see." Hermione nodded.

She made another note. Regarding the information, she pushed her hair back into a bun. Arthur looked out the window, his chin resting in his lap. He was livelier than she had imagined, especially for his age. And happier, too, despite what had happened.

He turned to her suddenly.

"The food may take a while. Shall we continue?"


	2. Summer of Youth

Summer of Youth

My baby sister arrived when I was eight years old. I have told you that mother didn't care much for her. She didn't have my curse. She didn't complain often as an infant. She was quiet, giggled often, complied to my mother's trust, and loved her unconditionally. I had never seen love so pure since then. But mother didn't focus on her often. She started to focus less on me, too. She cared for the infant, Alice, until she was five and had some sort of autonomy on her own. Even then her care was elsewhere. She would go off during the day, leaving me to tend to Alice.

I would bathe her, clothe her, feed her, care for her. I never went to school. I taught myself. I went to the library, often taking her with me, and I devoured the books. Since I was not really a wizard and not really a human boy, I slipped below the notice of officials. I preferred it that way. When mother didn't care I tended Alice. When she did, I read and studied. For five years it was like that. Then when I was fifteen the care of the baby went to me completely.

And that is the story for fall.

I will tell you a story of a year before that, when I was twelve years old. I had one good friend, and it was also the year I met the man who would later tell me about you.

* * *

><p>Arthur was smiling warmly. Hermione looked up from the notepad. She knew this would be a good memory, a kind one.<p>

The door opened and two servants walked in. They picked through the books, their trained legs missing mound after mountain after valley. The two went to Arthur, who cleared the desk. Two plates of food were set before them. Each hosted a meat glazed in sauce, a piece of round bread, mashed potatoes coated in the same sauce as the meat, and a neat arrangement of sliced green vegetables. A glass of water and several napkins accompanied them.

The servants waited until Arthur dismissed them.

"Eat, I like my food cold. I'll continue telling you my story."

* * *

><p>The friend, my same age, was called Dominique Montis. Dominique of the Mountain. He had narrow eyes and a long face that made you think he had been smothered by his life. His hair was scrappy and uneven. The air of being unwanted lingered around him like a bad raincloud. I was his only friend, I've come to think. I was the only one who spoke to him, who stayed up late at night.<p>

He was unwanted at home. Mother must have had a hidden liking towards him. Although she did not acknowledge his presence most days—she hardly noticed mine save for once a month—she would prepare food when he came by. She would also let us see her old school text books. I tried to learn as much as I could with Dominique. Neither of us ever received a letter from Hogwarts.

Dominique didn't speak of his past, but he still hungered to see the spells lined out on books, to hold a wand, to mix a potion. He had a quiet passion for learning. When I went to get a cup of water, I often returned to find him mesmerized in a book we hadn't gotten to yet. I would fight him playfully for it and we would study.

Now it must seem strange to you that two twelve year old boys' great idea of fun was reading textbooks and venturing to Diagon Alley when we could for _more _books. Looking back, I even admit it was strange. But, I assume, it was because this vault of knowledge had been banned from us. Dominique was born to a pureblood family where he was unwanted, because his father thought magic was a joke played on kids to raise their expectations of reality. His mother had only birthed him out of weak rebellion. Once she saw a living infant in her arms her guile fell away and she became cheap and cold. She gave him food and shelter. Regardless of the materials and barest living necessities satisfied, he was a tired, miserable boy.

And me, my magic weakened each day. By the time I was eleven the most contact I had with magic, aside from my lupine problem, was my mother. Hogwarts couldn't teach me. There was nothing to teach. Hogwarts was a distant dream, a mirage in the desert of clear, cool ponds and white-necked swans.

Let's return to Dominique.

One evening we tired of reading and snuck out of our cramped apartments. I saw his mother in the window, her black, dull eyes staring out into the night. One of her arms rested on a window sill. Smoke rose from a thin cigarette between her fingers. I have yet to meet another witch or wizard who smoked muggle cigarettes.

The door opened and Dominique slipped out in a leather jacket with a thin bag at his side. His mother didn't even blink. I met him at the end of the road. He smiled broadly at me. Our friendship flourished.

I knew that the nearly mute boy with an often fidgety or violent temper had joy in his heart. Maybe all because of me. I treated him like a brother, just as I treated little four year old sister. Alice was at home with mother. It was one of her good days.

Dominique and I walked across the stretch of shoddy apartment buildings. We talked about various things. Dominique said quietly that his mother's father dropped by the other day. He yelled and exploded at her. The woman lazily blinked her eyes.

Dominique's eyes clouded over. We were passing the darkest part of the neighborhood, where the sun's last rays didn't grace. He pressed his lips together, shifting the thin bag from shoulder to shoulder.

"He yelled at her and I was surprised. I walked towards him, I knew I shouldn't have. Father wasn't home. He never was. He sometimes sends money and all, and visits. He pats my head then and asks how my grades are. He doesn't care. He doesn't see what we live in. But her father, he saw. He pointed at the cracked lamp and the stained rug. He yelled at her and she rolled her eyes. He saw me then and grabbed my by the shoulder."

Dominique demonstrated by pinching my shoulder gruffly. I winced slightly. I had an unhealed scar there. I let him because I knew that his grandfather had done worse. Now tears were slipping down his cheeks. He hastily wiped them away.

"And—And he yelled at me, too. 'Look at this piece of' and he called me all sorts of strange names. 'Can't do magic, his blood stained, his mother a' but here he said I word I didn't understand. The way mother finally reacted told me that it was bad."

He told me how his father only prolonged his exasperation and then stormed away. He wore a fine beige suit.

"Mum didn't say anything after that. She looked at me like I had caused her trouble. I bowed my head but it was too late. She hit me a little, not as bad as usual, and sent me to my room." Dominique's expression hardened at once. I knew he didn't want to say anything else. He could tell me everything, anything, but not all at once. Learning to trust is difficult. I can tell you that first hand.

We reached a silver wire fence. We found a latch and opened it up. Dominique went through that while I scrambled over the top—unsuccessfully. I slid back down, my hands turned red. We went to the other side and burst out laughing. At the time, my marks and my dismal falling down had been the most hilarious, uplifting event in our cramped lives.

The field that spread above us sloped gently upwards with a few hills. Trees steadily filled the surroundings until they filtered into a large forest. The stars glittered overhead. Dominique and I went to one of the trees. I had brought a backpack that I had found and begged mother to buy for me when she was in a gentler mood. Inside there were sleeping bags, thin, but enough for the warm summer evening. We curled up in them, munched on a few treats Dominique bought with the few coins his father gave him each visit. We ate in peace, talking, relaxing, and having a good time despite what the lives at home were.

* * *

><p>"Hopefully that's not altogether unfamiliar to you, Miss Granger." Arthur said. He leaned over and picked up his fork and knife. He slowly cut the meat into tender pieces and ate them, spilling some sauce down his lips. He took a napkin and wiped the smudges away.<p>

Hermione shrugged, returning to the meal she had nearly altogether abandoned. She told the quill to pause. She didn't want it to record this part of the conversation, the one most dear to her heart.

The quill waited and Hermione, stabbing a vegetable with the fork, looked at Arthur. She shrugged again.

"We never had time to do fun things. We were always on adventures or busy with schoolwork. And, during the summer, Harry never could leave his home. When he did it was to Ron's and then something or other would distract us. It exhausts me, thinking about my childhood." She paled slightly.

Arthur reached over and patted her hand. A way a grandfather might, or an old professor. "What a life it was. Hardly a break in your schedule. So much so you had to jump back in time, if I'm correct?" His eyes twinkled.

She laughed. "I think I know who your friend was."

"Wait and see."

She quieted, finishing off her plate. Arthur did the same, chewing thoughtfully. The servants came back and collected the cleared plates. They efficiently wiped off the desk and went away.

"Anything else?" Arthur asked.

Hermione shook her head furiously.

Arthur then frowned. "Where do you live?"

Hermione looked anywhere but at him. She twisted her fingers. "I live in an apartment in London, along with a roommate. We're studying for the same job. I wanted to write a book, hopefully earn some extra money."

"For a woman as smart as you are, you sure are a wretched liar." Arthur beckoned a servant closer. He whispered a few words to her. She acquiesced, her eyes flicking to Hermione, and left. Her heels clicked against the floor.

When Hermione said nothing, Arthur continued. "It's always people like you who catch the short end of the stick."

"I suppose."

"If only I could live to see you to my age. What a wise, brilliant woman you will be then. You'll have marinated in life and matured like fine wine. You'll have become the most excellent advisor. You could become the Hogwarts headmistress easily."

"Please, you flatter me."

"I don't like to give empty comments." His jovial mood snapped away. It was replaced by a hard, relentless, temperamental scowl.

Hermione was terrified at once. Though, she didn't show it. She kept her face demure and downturned. She knew her eyes were wide. The man was half-wolf. She had forgotten that he could swipe at his own beloved dog, the way he spoke to her. He was kind and intelligent. More so than most people. And yet, like a sea, the storm clouds could roll in without warning.

Arthur relaxed. "I don't like those words, the empty ones that people use these days. I hate them. I hate how people throw 'love' around like it's a hard mint."

The subject fell away, a leaf separating from its twig. Hermione cleared her throat and thanked him for the meal. His smile returned once again.

"Don't worry about it, ducky." He chuckled. She smiled at the nickname.

The servant returned with an envelope and a book. He took it graciously and tucked it into his desk. Hermione didn't see what it was or for whom it was. Arthur leaned over the desk, lacing his old hands, and continued.

* * *

><p>They talked about anything and everything. The talked about kid boy things. They talked about the girl they went to school with, how she made them confused and angry. Then again, her pigtails do all nicely and she always made them laugh.<p>

"You know Hogwarts, right?" He asked.

I nodded.

"What house would you have been in?"

We often did that. We fantasized about having magic and taking lessons. We imagined the people there, the teachers. Surely they were far more elite and better than the lazy, withdrawn teachers we saw each day at our poor, remorseful school.

I thought about his question. "Hm, I think I know. And you?"

At the same time we said: "Ravenclaw!"

Unlike most purebloods, Dominique wasn't taught to cross his fingers for Slytherin. He knew about it, and he didn't care. It was a name, like Gryffindor. It was Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw we thought of and read about. We wanted to be either the cunning, knowledgable Ravenclaw. Or we could have had the friendship and loyalty of Hufflepuff. The other two houses were like archetype villains and heroes to us. Unachievable by little boys who could hardly keep their heads up in the their own homes.

"Sometimes," Dominique said as if he was in a trance of utter bliss, "when Mum is in a good mood she tells me stories of the school."

By good mood he meant drunk.

Once I had seen her in the fabled "good mood" before that night. I went with him home after school. This was before the night of a full moon. He didn't know, not just yet, what would happen to me. But he knew I was suddenly on guard and twitchy.

The door opened and his mother lunged at him. She scooped the petrified Dominique in her thick arms and peppered his head with sticky kisses. He tried to squirm away and scream. She didn't let him.

"My boy! My baby boy! My darling!" She cried out, her voice slurred. I was afraid she would choke Dominique to death.

I stomped on her foot. She loosened her grip and looked hazily around for me. Dominique dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. I ran to my house, begging mother for help and hoping she wasn't in a "good mood". She looked up at me from her desk. She had her wand out. Alice was on the ground by her feet, playing with a toy duck.

My words jumbled, I quickly told her what was happening.

Mother laughed.

"Oh Isabella isn't dangerous. She's touchy and miserable. Dominique will be fine. I've been around her."

I thought I had been greatly betrayed. I wanted to scream at her. _You don't care! You hate me! You wish you could get rid of both me and Alice! _But then, speaking of her, Alice looked up at me with her pale green eyes. I shut up real good.

I ran back to Dominique's house. His mother was on the couch, far away from him. I saw his face. Content.

Later, looking back, I pierced through the veil of my rage and panic. I saw that Dominique truly was happy. This was the only time his mother paid him any attention.

She luckily forgot about my foot-stomping, too.

I thought about that evening as we lay under the stars. Dominique started talking again.

"She says that's it's the most magical place in the world. It's a living monument. There are brooms flying everywhere and all sorts of amazing gadgets we've read about. You can't use magic in the halls or you get in trouble."

I should mention that we had no idea that we could be punished for using magic at home unsupervised. Not that we had enough to use and capture the Ministry's attention. What were two, weak, poor boys in the eyes of the gilded Ministry?

I listened as Dominique weaved stories of shifting halls and talking pictures. I smiled at him and felt my head grow sleepy. I tried to stay up, seeing as how Dominique was using my lap as a pillow for his head, we didn't have enough pillows, and I had my hand on his chest. I could feel his small heart thump and his chest rise and fall. If I fell asleep, I wouldn't notice if my legs went numb. My back was against a tree, cushioned by a soft pillow embedded with octagonal beads.

I remember it all so clearly.

"I'm a werewolf." I whispered softly. My eyes were already sliding shut.

Dominique looked up at me. "That's fine." He said gently.

I fell asleep despite my efforts. So did he. It was the last peaceful night for a long time.

One day a month after, Dominique went home and never came back. His grandfather and father had arrived at the same time. I could hear them scream from my house. I hugged Alice to my chest, brushing her hair and telling her stories. I tried to overrun the shouting voices, but I was a feeble pebble in an incessant stream.

Mother was hurting from the yelling, too. I could see it in her haunted eyes. She knew what it felt like. Her father's father had chastised her the same way when he saw the scar across her belly, and the baby growing beneath.

I heard a curse I didn't recognize followed by a scream, then a gunshot. It wasn't unfamiliar in our neighborhood. There was a gang of older boys down south. Sometimes they squabbled and you could hear the lead pipes clanking and the chains clattering a mile off.

The following day I saw bodies being evacuated from the house. One was small, pitiful. A bullet gone wrong into the throat. I wept for hours, days, and then I became distant and weak. Mother cared for Alice, who did not understand my sorrow.

I had lost my only friend. How could I let him go so easily?

I had walked him home.

He knew a my secrets.

I had seen the scratches on the door.

He was fine with them.

I heard the glass shatter.

He loved me.

I saw the burning ember of a cigarette.

I loved him.

I shut the door behind him. I shut off his life. He smiled at me one last time. In a way, I thought his smile was knowing. His fate was coming and he was ready for it. To escape the suffering. And leave me alone.

* * *

><p>Arthur wept now. Hermione sat, shocked still. Her eyes were dry, but gazing morosely towards Arthur. The soft tears trickled down his cheeks. He wiped them away with a sigh. He was done, now.<p>

"I can return tomorrow." Hermione said calmly. "If it's too difficult now."

His gaze snapped at her hotly.

"No. There's more. We can take a break after I finish this part. But we will complete the story today. I apologize for consuming your time, but you came here willingly."

Hermione nodded weakly. The protest dying in her throat. A question occurred, she paused. His attention had been captured.

"You said this was in summer, but you were in school?"

"Yes. I was a bad student, despite my wit. Dominique and I had been removed and placed into a 'special' class. To help us. We went to school year round. And that was good enough. Any reason to keep us away from home."

"Oh, I see."

"Then, be quiet and let me go on."

* * *

><p>It would be a lie to say that I've gotten over losing him. As you've seen from my shameless tears. But the pain I grew used to. I became numb. I lost trust in people, in friends. I became a remote character in our faceless classes.<p>

During summer, as you pointed out, I had those classes. I didn't have to attend, necessarily. Later I would drop them completely, seeing as I had a little sister to care for and a removed mother.

No one truly cared, then, when I ran away. Mother didn't notice until the second day. Which was a record in her book.

I grabbed my things in the evening. I put them in the backpack I had taken that day that felt so long ago to the meadow. Once everything was in place, I ran away. Easy as that. I didn't have plans. I would take what little money I had saved from various petty jobs they gave children, and I ran.

I went first to the meadow. I cut through it, away from people, and I thought. I remembered Dominique. I remembered Alice's birth, when she was so tiny. Mother nursed her and appeared to care. I remembered Mother's broken lullabies. I remembered Limestone. I didn't cry. Crying was over, now.

I walked and walked for what seemed like a month. The sun went to high noon when I found a park. I went into it and followed a path, which led me to the city. I remember the shocking bustle and noise of the city. True, I had been there with mother, but we moved when her job failed her. I hardly recognized the streets and the gush of people.

This was nothing compared to London. In this city, I forget the name now, I went to find a public transportation method. I found a bus and it took me to London, where I received another cultural shock. It helped me take the mind off of everything that poisoned and bit me like stinging insects.

I walked around the city for some time, exploring, stepping away from pedestrians. Some gave me curious looks. What was a child doing in the city? But the pity faded away, distracted by a glimmer of something in the distance or a sharp sound to the opposite direction of me. I didn't mind. The less attention the better.

I grew bored of the glamor soon. Eventually I ended up in the more magical part of town, one where Dominique and I had snuck off to twice. We had taken the same route, that's why I knew it so well and had little trouble coming.

Then, two curious children was a common sight. One lone child was sad, but not altogether that special. I went to the bricks I knew unlocked the key to Diagon Alley. I didn't enter. Those twin memories burned in my head. I turned away, walking into the streets. The temptation was too much. Still, I had to wait. A wizard walked by, tapping them. The wait proved worth it. I slid in after him.

The magical astounded me. Even more than the big city had. I walked in, looking around like a foolish puppy. I saw shops with every sort of marvel. I saw strangely robed individuals. I heard excited voices. I saw groups of friends. I saw innocent minds. They didn't hear gunshots in the night.

A boy my age walked past me. His eyes met mine. We knew at once who the other was. The boy tore away from the crowd. We had a strange sense, like we both knew what secrets lay in our hearts. We walked near each other. The boy had stolen from his book shopping.

We walked together until the boy politely turned to me.

"I'm Remus Lupin." He said, sticking a hand out.

"Arthur Kirkland." I responded. I shook his hand.

Like that I had made a new friend. He did not replace Dominique, however. He had his group of three friends he stuck with. I was a side buddy, someone to look to when he came home from the summer, someone to write to during the school year, someone to look toward for comfort when his best friends perished, years later.

Someone to share the agonizing loneliness of the pale moon.

We became lifelong friends that afternoon. In our adult lives, up to his untimely death. We corresponded. He told me of you. I was busy at that time. Now I know I should have paid more attention. Maybe he would have lived.

I helped him buy books. We spoke. We discussed. He proved to be a patient, intelligent young man. Soft spoken, peaceful, friendly, sorrowful, and courageous. I wasn't surprised when he said what house he belonged to. He was a perfect image of the hero I once imagined.

He wasn't handsome at that time. I wouldn't say so. He had gentle, sloping lines of his face, delicate tawny curls, sad eyes, and long fingers. He was almost feminine. The warlike werewolf inside snatched away the factor that pushed him into the edge of "pretty". I wasn't. I was just as I am now, minus the wrinkles and spots. My excessive eyebrows may have come from the strange condition of my birth. I always thought that.

Remus didn't have anything extra. He had a few thin scar and one black bruise on his knee. Otherwise he had no distinguishable factors of his secret. I don't know, to this day, what exactly gave each of us away. Powerful magic lies below it.

Remus' friends never learned about me. I had a feeling I was a very special friend to him. I was his reliable phantom. Someone no one else could see. He wasn't greedy, I'm not saying that, but he had found joy in someone that was all to himself. Someone he didn't have to share. He didn't voice these opinions, never. But I knew.

* * *

><p>Arthur grinned. "No, I wasn't his lover. I was his friend."<p>

"I know!" Hermione said. She touched her cheek and felt that it was hot.

Arthur was amused. Not flattered. Not disgusted. Simply amused by the notion. He tilted his head to the side, lightly.

"After that, Mother allowed me the use of her fat, old owl to send letters to him. I don't have much to say on him. You know him well. You know how he kept the secret of his wife." Arthur made an expression Hermione couldn't decipher.

He stood, pushing his desk chair back.

"Let's take a walk outside while I tell you the third part. It'll get stuffy in here."

Hermione agreed, taking her notepad and floating quill. She stopped when Arthur raised his hand. He said something, twitching his wand. She stared in awe. She kept her notepad with her, but she recognized the spell. The quill would stay here taking notes, no matter where the speakers were. She thought it was a breech of magic.

The tired look on Arthur's face from using that spell told her it was better not to ask.

She followed him out the door, down to the gardens.


	3. August Hands

August Hands

(_The Fall from Innocence_)

They walked for some time through the garden. Arthur led Hermione through the clean beige pathway and around shrubs dotted with tiny red flowers. She looked around, holding her notepad to her chest. The sun was starting to dip into the horizon. The sky was bruised across from where the sun was, showing a brushstroke of nighttime.

A man crouched near the end of the garden. Although it was a large area, it was not the largest Hermione had ever seen. Compared to Hogwarts' fields, this was a minute speck in a starry sky. The man raised a potted plant and set it aside. His long hair was set in a loose ponytail, gliding down one of his shoulders. His young, soft face was spotted with soil. He was new, Hermione could tell. He still didn't have the leathery, pock-marked face of a laborer yet. But, from Arthur's affirming nod and the rows of colorful, varying flowers that lined the road, he was talented.

They reached a rose bush, by which sat an elegant white chair with curled arms. Soft red petals decorated the edges. Arthur sat down and motioned for her to join him. The late afternoon breeze ruffled her hair. She sat down, setting the notepad on her lap.

His eyes tipped towards the sky, watching the colors drain and shift. For the first time, his face looked old. Hermione noticed, with a good deal of surprise, that small lines branched off from his eyes and mouth. His lips were pale and scarred. A knotted scar trailed down from the back of his head and around his neck. His arms were spotted, resting in his lap.

The image shattered when his eyes swung back to look at her. He smiled. His eyes were full of light and mischief, and, strangely enough, magic. Hermione thought back to her teachers, her friends, herself. Their eyes were the same as muggles, mostly. When she looked at them she didn't see the glitter she saw now. The radiance, the airy delight that swam in him. This man seemed to be made of magic.

Her lips parted. She wanted to comment on it.

But he tore away before she could.

"It's lovely today." She muttered, to that her mouth didn't hang open.

Arthur nodded.

"Yes," he leaned back with a sigh, "an adequate temperature. My bones aren't quite brittle enough to sense much change. My skin's too calloused to feel subtle changes between hot and cold."

Hermione blushed. "Oh, I didn't meant to."

"No, of course you didn't. And I was stating a fact, not an accusation." He grinned again, the same boyish, whimsical look he gave her earlier. "Don't worry, dear."

The man shifted and moved on to the next bare stretch of dirt. He dug his fingers into the dirt, upturned it, and gently, as if holding an infant, set a new, fresh green stem into the earth. She watched him work for a while. He didn't seem aware that eyes were pinned on him. Also, that one of the maids that dusted the outside of the house, batting away cobwebs, kept her gaze pinned to him fervently.

Hermione turned to Arthur. He didn't appear prepared to share the next part. His expression shifted between content, to pinched with pain, to curious, then back to simply content. Hermione didn't know what to say or do.

Finally, Arthur began to speak.

"You must think I'm utterly spoiled from my wealth."

"No, I think you've earned it." Hermione replied quickly.

Arthur raised his canopy of eyebrows.

She laced her fingers, looking directly at him. She felt as if she was seeing a grandfather, if her grandfather was a werewolf, semi-wizard with dangerously green eyes. "You worked for this. I remember what the book said about you. And you seem to have suffered your share, that is, if you believe in that, having balance. But I think you're just fine. Not that my opinion should matter much to you, granted, I am only me."

Arthur didn't say anything for some time. When he spoke again, he launched back into his story.

* * *

><p>Mother said nothing. She took Alice in one hand, her little five-year-old palm cradled in her large one. She grabbed my shoulder and pushed me forwards. We left our small home. Alice asked a thousand questions, wondering where she was going, where, why. Would she get something sweet? She laughed in excitement.<p>

She remembered how on days Mother felt especially wakeful and alert she would take us into London. She would walk us around and then take us to a festival. We would play games and she would throw darts with marvelous accuracy. No magic involved. She had a talent there. She would win plush bears and lambs for Alice. Alice would go home with two or three of them. Even if the sky was gray and moody, Alice would clear it away with her bright smile. The plushes crowded her tiny frame. She never grew out of her nearly boyish body.

After the games Mother would buy us ice-cream or candy. We would eat it happily, soaking up each moment of childhood fun. When we returned home we would watch a movie or play games. Alice knew these days were best. Other days she would turn solemn, quieter, but not devoid of happiness. When Mother neglected her and I fed and bathed her, she would cling to my neck.

"Why is mummy sad?" She would whisper in my ear.

I would hug her and set her down. She would rest against my lap. I pulled a brush through her soft flaxen hair.

"Alice, mummy is a little tired. That's all. She works hard for us." I blatantly lied.

Alice peered at me curiously. I was terrified that she tore through my rouse and could see the core of deceit and bitterness I held. I never found out if she did.

That day, we didn't go to the festival. I already could tell. I could tell from the distant, cold gaze and the removed smiles she gave us. She had filled her purse with something, I could see a paper bag poking out from the top.

We walked for some time, taking the underground under the autumnal night sky. She did this wordlessly. I thought about what she wanted to do, my heart sinking. I was so young. I had just made a new friend after losing the last one. I was wounded, trying to lick my cuts clean while hiding in my cave. I wasn't ready for what mother wanted to do. She stopped being Mother, warm mummy, and became cold, removed mother. Someone I attributed my blood and misfortune to. Someone that I said gave me life on official documents. Someone who I pinpointed as the cause for everything wrong. From her now wispy hair and round, narrow eyes.

Once in London she took us to a faded building. A tall woman opened the door. I was taken aback. She wasn't beautiful. She had full hips and a tight red dress, but her face was plain, even haggard. I didn't like her. Her eyes swung to Alice, who was trembling next to me. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She knew what was happening before I did. Her small hand reached for me. I was too shocked to take it.

Of everything I regret, I regret this most. I regret being too frozen with shock and fear to grab my sister's hand and, possibly, run away. I regret watching on as mother pushed her forwards, handing the paper bag over. Alice ended up in the arms of another woman, one who was taller and skinner, and much nicer, than the first one. Alice was weeping, mostly out of confusion. Her tiny hands shook. I looked a mother, anger rising in me like a tide. The door shut, something fell into mother's hands. Money. Greed. Carelessness smothered down into sheets of paper. The door shut. The door shut. The door shut. I wanted to tear it open and force my way through, begging, screaming, wanting my sister back.

I stared at mother, wanting to hit her, but too afraid to do that.

She stared at me.

"What do you want me to do?" She asked. Her eyes were dry. I think if she had shed a single tear I would have felt sympathy for her. But she didn't. She didn't care.

"Get her back." I said. I felt riled up.

She grinned, lopsided. Her mind had already begun to melt some time ago.

"Why? So you can tear her up like a dog with a new toy?"

My blood froze. My fists tightened.

"Don't play stupid, Arthur." She said. "You know how you get. I'm the only one that can handle you. Without me, you would be dead. Dead meat on the side of the road. You'd be broken and you'd have hurt so many people. Especially her. Do you want to her to be in the same house with you when you turn evil? When you show your true colors?"

I didn't understand her sudden, uncharacteristic meanness then. Now I know the guilt she felt. She tried to cover it up. She had tried so hard to be a good mother. She failed, miserably. Now all she could do was pin the blame on me, like I did to her. She didn't believe what she said. She needed to say something or else she would have collapsed out of her own misery. She had been wounded so many times before that the slightest prodding released fresh blood.

"Better than if you raised her." I said weakly.

I thought I felt better. She had given up the girl for adoption. My sister no longer my sister. My sister no longer remembering me. I felt bad again. At least she would be safe, from both me and mother. She wouldn't have to hide from me, even though I was the only one could care for her. We had no friends to call for. She would be safer. Possibly.

As we walked away I saw two young men walk up to the door. I wondered if they were adopting. I glanced at them over my shoulder.

"Move." She said, nudging me in the shoulder. I stumbled forwards.

"What if they take Alice?" I whispered, scrambling for comfort of any kind. "They don't look safe."

Mother didn't look back.

"Move." She repeated.

I stumbled forth again. The door opened again, this time a pretty young girl with tight brown curls and makeup on her cheeks smiled at them. Her eyes narrowed. They followed me, briefly. She stared into my eyes. She turned back to the men, welcomed them in.

Later, when I thought back, I broke through the veil of innocence and I realized the true nature of the sordid house.

* * *

><p>Arthur fell silent. Hermione knew what he meant.<p>

"Was she a witch?" She asked.

Arthur shrugged. "I never saw her again. I don't know. I would think so. That's how blood works, doesn't it? I ended up a werewolf with barely enough magic so that I wasn't classified as 'squib' and she must have been a powerful witch. I think. That would seem fair."

He paused.

"Then again, nothing she had was fair."

He looked down.

"Maybe she was allowed to go to Hogwarts," Hermione asked, eyes widening. "Then she could escape that place."

"Perhaps." A glimmer of hope escaped through his flashing smile.

"Does she remember you?"

"Doubtful." The hope was snuffed at once. "I wish I could have given her something to remember me by. Maybe a toy or a necklace."

"You were a child. Don't be hard on yourself." Hermione said at once.

Then she bit her tongue. Embarrassment rinsed her. Who was she to say such things to him? To comfort a man so much older, wiser, better than her? She had no experience. Not really.

"You know my parents don't remember me either." Hermione said.

Arthur turned to her. "They don't?"

She stared at a patch of cyclamens. Their curved pink petals standing up. Their fragile, bent stems holding their pretty heads high. She wanted to pick on and cradle it in her palm. She didn't move.

"When I went with Harry and Ron I took away their memory. I effaced myself from their photos, their lives. So they wouldn't worry or miss me."

"For the better?"

"At the time."

"In a way, mother forgot about me, too…"


	4. East of the Border

East of the Border

(_Frozen heart)_

When mother fell too deeply into the darkness, after giving up Alice, I had to raise myself. I was aware that my grades in school were the only things keeping my afloat. I worked relentlessly on them. My hours became divided between studying at home and lingering in the library. I kept in contact with Remus. He became my one beacon of support and friendship.

Each time he visited, he told me of his friends. He told me how they could turn into animals to keep him company. How one chose to be a dog just to give him comfort. At these times I hid my jealousy and bitterness well. I didn't want to steal his good fortune. Life was hard, I thought. That's how it was supposed to be.

We fell apart when I went to college. I wanted to become a doctor, a veterinarian. I even received a scholarship from the United States. I didn't accept. It would involve traveling on a plane during one of my bad days. I declined, sadly. I put my mother into a psychiatric ward. She was tended to. Everything seemed bittersweet. I worked through college, lived, and I wept when the letter from Remus told me of the wizard war I had all but forgotten.

Yes, as odd as it is, save for once a month I forgot I had been born to magic blood. I became immersed into the regular world, the world of medicine. Dominique slipped into the back of my mind, staying the stubborn wizard. Mother didn't contact me. I think she doesn't know who I am, or who she is for that matter.

Each letter I received woke me from my dream. Each full moon I slunk into a nightmare. Then everything returned to normal.

I treated animals I had some vague connection with. Remus told me of you and Harry. I made myself a living. I didn't marry. I didn't look for Alice, never again.

Once I did try to. I went out during my first year of college. I drove around town. I found a building that I thought for certain was Alice's. I knocked on the door. A woman who didn't speak English and had the build of cardboard kicked me out. That was the end of that.

I let go of my past. I became antisocial. I knew only the animals I tended. Their owners were shadows I sometimes interacted with.

I made enough to make this house and to hire a host of unfortunates. In hope of a better life for someone else, so they don't have to go through what I did.

And now I'm here.

* * *

><p>Hermione stared at him in confusion. That wasn't the whole story. The finality of his tone and the shadow passing over his gaze didn't mend the gap that had opened up in his life.<p>

Arthur noticed. "Let me take you to one of my smaller libraries. I relented showing you before because I knew you would devour it all."

Hermione flushed. "I probably read all that's in there." She muttered.

Arthur did not reply.

He led her back through the winding road. The man who had tended the garden was now gone. The servant who eyed him, too, was gone. Hermione and Arthur exchanged looks. Arthur shook his head.

"The gardner has a lover elsewhere."

"Oh."

They went into a different room on the opposite side of the house. Arthur's heels clicked against the floor. In the kitchen a single, plump cook bustled. Her rosy face turned to him, smiling. Arthur nodded at her.

"Will you stay for dinner?" he asked Hermione loudly.

"No, I couldn't." Hermione retorted quickly, her eyes wide.

Arthur shook his head at the cook who appeared dismayed, but returned to her cooking. As they walked, Hermione realized that the house seemed much bigger than it really was. It was an average town home, save for the rather large garden. She figured that Arthur's presence and the two maids, gardener, cook, and manservant gave it a flare that inflated the walls, making them bigger on the inside.

The room at the end of the hall was devoid of everything but shelves and shelves of books. Next to the shelves there were piles, mountains of them. Every language Hermione knew was spilled on the papers. Stacks of handwritten notes flourished in one corner. Encyclopedias were lined in another. Medical books, for both human and animal, took up a majority of one of the mahogany shelves. Hermione felt her jaw drop and her heart beat quicken.

She recognized a few of the titles in the fiction title. Most she didn't know. She saw books she had heard of, muggle and wizard alike, and she saw books that she had never laid eyes on. She saw a book titled _Anno Domine and Mine Too. _By a Quibbling Writer Man — the actual pen name the writer used. She saw a tattered copy of a book called _Elixir of Werewolves and Why Their Teeth Hold Celestial Bewilderment. _What book caught her eyes most was a hefty, leather-bound volume sitting on top of a pile of similarly clothed books.

Its pages leaked out of one corner. For the most part, it was intact. The title said _How I Found the Time I Once Lost. _

She looked at Arthur imploringly. She didn't know why she wanted it, she simply did. Its cover drew her fingers closer. Already her thumb and forefinger were clamped around the binding.

"Take it if you want." Arthur said. "I'll give you time to explore this library soon enough."

She tucked it under her arm like a mouse might tuck a piece of food into its cheeks for safekeeping. "Thank you," She whispered excitedly.

Arthur took a new volume, the one she had found his name in not so long ago, and bade her to exit the room. She obliged reluctantly, gripping the book in her arms.

"Where did you find all these books?" She asked, breathless.

"I collected them. Remus sent me some. Some were in Dominique's collection, some in mother's. And a good many were presents. But what money I don't spend on living and maintaing this home goes into collecting literature. I adore writing." A wistful smile appeared.

Hermione already itched to crack this one open and read it. She peeked at the first page and consumed the first line, "_The greatest misfortune that ever befell me was the inability to understand how deeply I can hurt another, but a great understanding of my own tortures." _She hungered for more. Arthur was quiet. Her gaze flicked towards him, then on to one of the latter pages. There were over a thousand in the book total.

_"'You could say that.' _

_"'I could.' I replied, unconscious of the creeping shadows covering his cheeks and the room around him. I wondered if you could eat darkness. I was a strange, creepy child I realized. The memories flushed back into my head—"_

"Sit down. I will need a moment. Let me reread this." Arthur interrupted her. She shut the book and sat down on the soft beige couch. She set the book next to her. He chose the armchair, flipping the book open. He read through it, sighing and giving her time to read through a few pages.

* * *

><p>Notable figure No. 5: Image 78 [Arthur read] involves the young man Arthur Kirkland in his prime. Here he is depicted in his non-werewolf form. He lives outside of magical London and trains to be a veterinarian. He does not show any signs of possessing lasting magic. For a reason, left a controversial mystery, he was not accepted into Hogwarts school of wizardry. When the headmaster there is questioned, he denies having rejected the young man and insists that he was blocked by powerful magic.<p>

Previous Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, is quoted having said: "I remember once hearing rumors about him. It was well known that he was a wizard and that he had contact with one of the students here. His mother was a top student in Slytherin and is known for having been disowned by her family. A tragedy, whenever blood denies blood over trite matters . . . Otherwise, I don't see why he wasn't accepted. His recent feat shows that he has more than enough magic going around! Although, he is wrapped in mystery."

The feat Dumbledore references is the duel between twenty-two year old Kirkland, attended muggle university for medicine, and another notable werewolf named Finnegan Rust. Rust sported a thick red scar across his face and lacked most of his lower jaw. He was described by his sister, Amelia Rust, as "a stranger I sat with at dinner. His voice was watery and disgusting to hear. I don't worry much about appearances, but his personality was truly that of a wolf! He became such a danger that he was expelled from a wizarding school in Hungary."

Rust was reported to have had a violent temper and, by muggle psychologists, as a sociopath. He had nearly killed a student in his old school by dashing his head with "a claw he size of a rock" (the student in question described). Rust was attacked by his father, also a werewolf, at the age of six.

Kirkland, contrariwise, was said to have been born with it. An incident at his conception caused this. And, with a dose of powerful magic, he one the duel.

Onlookers all agree that Rust had assumed he had the upper hand. He wanted to fight Kirkland because Rust claimed that Kirkland had charmed his fiancée away. Kirkland is not married at the present (he remains living at the address located on page 1202 in the index). The fight had no purpose. But Kirkland did not refuse. Rust was eager to show off the wild ability he had to shift certain parts of his body back into he werewolf. How he did this is a grotesque, ancient spell that no one has been able to relocate.

Little did Rust know that Kirkland had another trick as well. One several hundred time more potent. Kirkland and Rust dueled and Kirkland "turned into a wolf! Right before my very eyes. I would have thought it was a magic trick, but we all know Kirkland's a bloody squib. Poor Finn, he didn't know how to react and in a moment he was trumped." One of Finnegan's closest friends tells us. He had a cut on his back and on his cheek, but otherwise he was fine. Kirkland showed a remarkable ability to manage his abilities.

After this he vanished for a year and he claims to have no memory of this when questioned. No explanation has yet been given…

* * *

><p>"And now you came to uncover the mystery?" Arthur asked, snapping Hermione out of her reverie.<p>

She shut the book, tucking its ribbon on to her page. She blinked at him in confusion, gathering her bearings. She saw the red book in his arms and nodded, straightening her stature.

"Yes." She said. "I thought that perhaps you could uncover a secret that wizards are missing. Maybe we could get rid of werewolves once and for all, with what you know. They could become powerful tools."

Arthur scowled. "You sound just like the minister." Just like that the calm sea turned into a rolling mass of gray and shards of pelting rain. Hermione shrunk. "He came up to me, told me those lies, and begged me to tell him what I knew. How I did it. Why. Where did I go?"

"I'm sorry," Hermione said quickly, her eyes tearing up.

"Damn him." Arthur shook his head. "I can't stand those pretentious bastards."

His eyes lingered on the grandfather clock in the corner. Its brass pendulum swung, its tear-drop end marly meeting the wooden edges. The song it gave was slow, ticking away time. Arthur shut his eyes and listened to it, soothing his rage. Hermione didn't dare speak or move. She was afraid she would ignite another flame. Her toes curled in her shoe, her fingers around her knees.

Finally, Arthur gave a long sigh. He turned to Hermione.

"Look at me hand."

She looked down.

His palm faced her. The creased, calloused, scarred, broken skin looked ancient. His nails were yellow. He must have smoked when he was younger. The tips of his thumb and forefinger were a silvery color. She regarded it, hoping to scrape up an answer and put together a viable response. She couldn't. So she looked on.

The scars sunk deeper into his palm, slowly. Leathery pads appeared instead of flesh. He rotated his arm, showing the bush of curled, gray fur growing around his wrist and down his knuckles. The rest of his arm remained human. Hermione gasped.

She looked at his pained eyes, which were tinged with yellow.

"Don't hurt yourself." She whispered.

His eyebrows rose. The yellow drained from his eyes and the fur shrunk, dried, and fell off in a climb on the floor. The leathery pads crumpled like dry skin, meeting the fur on the wooden floor. He would let the maid get rid of it.

"All my magic, it went here." He said simply.

Hermione nodded.

"I'm sorry for enraging you." She said.

"Don't be." His eyes tipped towards her. She saw something there. Something she couldn't quite name. "The truth is, Miss Granger, they don't really care about us. Minorities are minorities for a reason. Unimportant. Not just werewolves, but muggle-born, those with differently colored skin, those with different backgrounds. I've met boys in that school I went to, crazy smart and so kind hearted. What happened to them?"

Hermione curled her lower lip in. "They got what they deserved; peace?"

"Oh, Miss Granger, the world isn't that fair. They got kicked out. They didn't even bother applying to better colleges or schools because they wouldn't be let in. One look at their broken faces, scars, backgrounds, and they dropped them. For whatever reason."

"But you got in!" Hermione protested.

"I was lucky." Arthur said bitterly.

"But—But—why weren't you allowed into Hogwarts?" She continued, her eyes flaming. "The should have! Let me publish your story, tell me how you do it. Tell me so I can help the world. Tell me so I can rid the world of its poison and prejudice. Let me help! Oh if you weren't so vague."

Arthur huffed. "Get out of my house."

Hermione didn't move.

"I want to help."

"Leave!" Arthur jabbed his finger at the door.

"Why? So you can suffer?"

"You can't change the damn world." He snapped, his cheeks flushed. His eyes turned yellow again. Long claws crept where human nails should be. "YOU THINK YOU CAN WRITE A FEW WORDS AND FIX ALL THE WORLD'S PROBLEMS AND INJUSTICES? YOU WRETCHEDLY STUPID GIRL. GET OUT OF MY DAMN HOUSE!" He bellowed.

"No!" Hermione shouted back. "I'll find your sister for you!"

"Like hell you will." Arthur spat. "Leave my house now or I will never allow you entrance again. Get those silly ideas out of your head, girl. Leave me alone. I am unwell. Do you need me to make it any more clear?"

Hermione's guile fell away. Her shoulders slumped.

"Fine. But I'll come back." She stood, leaving the book behind, and traipsed out of the house. She flicked her wand. Her quill and paper flew to her hands. She took it and left the house, tears burning, and leaving behind an eery silence.

Arthur glowered at her wake.

"Stupid girl. Why did you give me hope?"

* * *

><p>Two weeks later, Arthur was dead. Hermione received word of it through the mail. She found the parchment sitting on her windowsill, an ancient owl at the foot of it. She petted its head, taking the note, and offered it a treat. It nipped at her finger and flew away before she could. Beneath it was a package bound in thin yellow paper.<p>

She opened the letter. At once, tears began to fall. Once she finished reading it, she regretted having so little time to find his sister. She had dug through all of magical London for the name Alice Kirkland, and came up dry. Another mystery.

The letter was a will. Arthur had given her all the contents of his library and full permission to use his life in her book. With the letter came a small, compact envelope. She chose to open the envelope first, her heart thudding.

The envelope contained leaves of money. It was the same one Arthur told his maid to bring. She wanted to give it back, to give up everything, just so she could apologize to him. She wiped her eyes, setting it aside. She reluctantly moved to the final package. She wanted to open this one the least, because she already knew what it contained.

She was right.

The leather-bound novel she had left was there. She set that aside and read the letter, consuming his last words, and feeling sad, though no more tears came. The time for weeping was now over. She even giggled once or twice, finding peace at last.

* * *

><p><em>I did not die of natural causes. I did not choose to, either. I know you are reading my posthumous letter with a bitter heart. For that I apologize. The wolf inside me was eating away at my spirit for so long. Perhaps if you look over the story once more you will find out why it is such. You'll pinpoint the exact spots where my lupine teeth shone and when I was dehumanized. <em>

_I give you the money because you are struggling and I am not. I do not hope to undo my regrets by paying your rent for you, or giving you a better life, or perhaps finally giving you enough money to buy the education to deserve, dear smart young lady. I do not hope to efface the wounds my words have inflicted on you. I cannot do any of that. I am half a man. _

_What I do hope is to lessen some of the suffering. Truly good men do not pen their deeds and boast about them. I am not a good man. I am evil, through and through, from my blood to my scars. Do not thank me for my generosity. Blame me for my cruelty, damn me for my negligence. Spit on my name for being unable to find my sister, for tearing up my past and walking away from it as if it was worthless. It was not. Now that they, if you choose to publish your book, have been stapled into mankind's collection of knowledge, print, I can no longer deny my heritage. _

_I now go to join those we have lost, who never were lost. I am going to become found. I am saying goodbye, Hermione Granger. _

_Sincerely and always yours, Arthur Kirkland. _

_P. S. _

_I never meant what I said about your inability to change the world. I'm sorry for my rage._

_P. S. S. _

_Please don't write that Remus and I were secret lovers. My denying it does not make it true. That _other _author wanted to do the same thing. I threatened her with a broken spoon and half a paperclip. _

_P. S. S. - final_

_Take some time to look into magic, what it truly is. Stop taking it for granted. There is my final answer. _


End file.
